


two for dinner? good

by cumaeansibyl



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dinner, Established Relationship, Extremely Speculative Demon Snake Biology, F/M, Fluff without Plot, Protectiveness, Soft Times Were Had By All, could be read as asexual and/or aromantic, they love each other a WHOLE bunch but the exact mode is left to the reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumaeansibyl/pseuds/cumaeansibyl
Summary: Aziraphale finds out why Crowley doesn't eat when they're together. He's more than happy to help him change that.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 247
Collections: Break in Case of Emergency: Fluff and Love





	two for dinner? good

**Author's Note:**

> Don't @ me about snake digestive systems, I do what I want.
> 
> Just in case: no one is shaming anyone about how much or how little they eat, or pushing anyone to eat more or less than they do.

“I’m hungry,” Crowley announces from the sofa, apropos of nothing.

“Oh, there’s a new chippie two streets over that the postman said was -- I’m sorry, what?” Aziraphale says.

Crowley grimaces. “You heard me.”

“But -- hm -- not to contradict, my dear, but you’ve certainly never been before.” Aziraphale thought of all the times the demon had sat across from him -- thermopolia, tavernas, brasseries -- all the attendants he’d waved off, all the bills of fare he’d ignored. Eating houses of any description were, while public, casual enough to seem safe, at least when dealing with supervisors who hadn’t grasped the possible implications of a shared meal. And perhaps it hadn’t seemed all that serious because they never had shared a meal, not really, though Aziraphale could remember with absolute clarity every bite he’d cajoled Crowley into trying. Crowley might make a face, or he might tip his head gently back and forth, as if weighing the taste and texture, before declaring it “all right” -- but he would never take a second taste.

“Yeah, see, about that.” Crowley’s still making that flat-mouthed face, which Aziraphale now recognizes as his I-did-something-you-won’t-like face -- the closest thing to a guilty look he supposes a demon can have. “It’s not that I wasn’t hungry. I mean, I wasn’t always, but sometimes I was, and, er -- it’s not a good idea, eating. Me eating, I mean, not you.”

“Whyever not?” Aziraphale thinks for a moment. “Do you eat rats, or cavies or something? I don’t mind, but I wouldn’t know the first thing about where to get good ones.”

“Er, not… usually? I mean, I have done, ‘ve eaten lots of nasty things, human food’s better. It’s just the whole process is a bit… snakeish.”

“But I have seen you eat before. You don’t, ah, unhinge your jaw or any of that.”

“Right, yeah, the act of eating is fine. It’s the… aftermath.” Crowley looks like he's about to bolt. Aziraphale would usually start a sentence here to get Crowley back in gear, but he genuinely has no idea where this is going. All he can do is lift his eyebrows in what he hopes is an encouraging manner.

“I get... sluggish after a big meal,” Crowley says finally, shoulders slumping. “Real slow digestion. The food just collects in this great heavy lump in my belly and it takes days to process, and I’m all dozy and useless until it’s done.”

“I see, but -- couldn’t you just take a nap until it’s over?”

“Eh…” Crowley rubs the back of his neck. “I may have overstated the amount of sleeping I do.”

“You? Exaggerate your accomplishments?” Aziraphale pops his eyes and mouth wide open, as if scandalized. “Good gracious, what next.”

“Oh, shut up,” Crowley said, with a reluctant quirk of the lips. “But listen, it’s just… I couldn’t ever afford to sleep it off, or even just slow down that long. I never knew when Downstairs was going to check in. They change the org chart so often it's just a bunch of Post-Its at this point. New supervisor every time I turned around, and they all liked surprise inspections.”

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale is surprised to feel a hot prickling at the corners of his eyes.

“Not to mention the usual backstabbers and ladder-climbers. What if I’d been called back to Hell mid-food coma? Someone would’ve gutted me for sure, for funsies if nothing else.” Crowley snorts. “Turns out if you’re a demon you can’t afford too much yielding to temptation, which they definitely don’t put in the recruitment brochure.”

Aziraphale, sensing that the demon has wandered off the point -- or perhaps run away from it -- puts a gentle hand on his arm. “Crowley,” he asks, “when was the last time you had a proper meal?”

“Oh, now, don’t get like that,” Crowley says, turning this way and that in a hopeless bid at avoiding his eyes. “See, I knew I shouldn’t have told you, you’re doing the sad face -- aw, angel, come _on_.”

Aziraphale tries to stop looking sad, but he isn’t sure he manages it. The idea of such an existence, so harried and hazardous that one can't so much as eat one's fill... “Really, Crowley, have you been hungry all this time? How long has it been?”

“It’s not as a big a deal as you’re making it out to be, really.”

“Would you please just answer the question.”

“I mean…” Crowley shrugs, opens his hands. “It’s been so long I don’t really remember --”

The flaming sword appears in Aziraphale’s hand. 

Besides the flames, there is no drama whatsoever. It wasn’t there, and now it is, and it feels wholly natural to Aziraphale, as he gives himself over to the purpose that shaped him in the Beginning. It flares in every feather of his wings as they mantle over Crowley, defending and sheltering. Crowley stares, yellow eyes neon-bright in the glare, awed and confused... but not afraid. Aziraphale’s own sorrow and righteous anger are subsumed in the quiet power of his first instinct: _protect_.

Neither dares to speak for some time.

“Well,” Aziraphale says at last, lowering the sword, “that was a thing.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you cared,” Crowley says. His tone is light, he’s smiling, but his eyes are solemn as he reaches up to touch Aziraphale’s wing with two careful fingers.

“You’re lucky I can tell when you’re being sarcastic,” Aziraphale says. “You know how important your well-being is to me. And yes, I know you don’t need to eat, but I don’t either and I’d still be dreadfully unhappy if I couldn’t. I simply won’t stand by and let you go hungry.”

Crowley strokes Aziraphale’s primaries with his whole hand, shaking his head fondly. “So you came over all protective. Gonna stand over the table while I eat? Guard my repast?”

“Don’t be silly, my dear.” Aziraphale ruffles his wings like a chilly pigeon and folds them neatly, but doesn’t put them away. The sword he extinguishes with a little _pfft!_ sound and slides into a sheath he’s now conveniently holding. “I will sit _with_ you at the table, and we will have dinner _together_.” He smiles. “I’ll guard you afterward.”

\---

Crowley leaves the shop to Aziraphale for the rest of the afternoon; he wants to sort a few things in his flat, ditch his raw denim trousers for something more accommodating, maybe think about what it means that he’s just… telling Aziraphale things now. Things about himself! When he knows that, instead of just going to the new chippie two streets over and calling it a day, Aziraphale is going to insist on making it a whole _thing_. It’s embarrassing and unnecessary and Crowley has brought it upon himself anyway, because… well. Mainly because he wants to eat a damn meal for once in his life, but maybe also because this is what you do when you care about someone. You tell them things, and you know they won’t hurt you, and they know you trust them.

And then maybe, he thinks when Aziraphale greets him at the door with a brilliant smile and a proffered arm, you let them dote on you a little bit. Since it makes them happy, even if you don’t understand why.

The angel has draped the central shelves in rich cream and gold fabrics, crafting an intimate, enfolding space beneath the oculus, like the inside of a jewelry box; branches of pear and apple blossoms seem to sprout from every corner, and a stately round table far too big for the two of them groans with gilt dishes of every size, some steaming gently, some cradled in crushed ice, all garnished and garlanded with green leaves.

“Bit much, angel,” Crowley says, trying not to look overwhelmed.

“Rather more than a bit, I hope,” Aziraphale says, nose in the air. “A bit much is merely bad taste. Much too much is _artistic_.”

Crowley picks up the bill of fare, done in Aziraphale’s prettiest copperplate -- a little awkward for being out of practice, but still very elegant. It’s one of those fancy touches he doesn’t see the point of, since the food’s right there on the table, but Aziraphale took the time to write it out, so he’ll look at it. 

Then he really looks at it, and his eyebrows make a break for his hairline. “Where on Earth did you get honeyed dormice?” he asks.

“Slovenia.” Aziraphale rocks up on his toes, then back on his heels, just as he always does when he hopes he’s gotten something right.

“Lamb shashlik, Samarkand, 1220… grilled halloumi, Famagusta, 1571… burnt filbert ice cream, Mayfair, 1775.” Crowley looks up, a disbelieving smile on his face. “That little Italian shop in Berkeley Square?”

“You did so like it there.”

“We went _once_. You remembered --” Crowley’s used to his words getting tangled up, coming out as sentence fragments and odd noises, but this is so much more. As if his heart is overgrowing its bounds, filling him with warmth and wonder, leaving no room for words. “Aziraphale. I didn’t even know what half this stuff was _called_. And all the dates and places? All of this, you remembered?”

“Of course I did! It’s not as though we had all that many opportunities. Not nearly as many as I’d have liked.”

“I didn’t realize it meant this much to you.” Crowley rubs his thumb across the bill, as though he can read it like Braille. “I thought sharing like that was just, I dunno, the done thing. Or you felt awkward eating alone.”

“Of course it meant something, you old serpent. You've been here as long as I have, and you know as well as I do there's no more meaningful choice on Earth than that of sharing a meal.” He pulls out Crowley’s chair so he can sit, guiding him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Nurture, affection, alliance, respect… everything it has ever meant, I mean it now, and I always have.”

“Angel…” Crowley doesn’t bother trying to hide the tears shining gold in his eyes. He knows it’s the best thanks he can give, letting Aziraphale see how deeply his love and care has touched him. 

“If I did feel awkward about eating alone, it was only because I wished you could share that pleasure with me.” Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s forehead. “And now you can, because you’re safe with me. By God Herself, nothing will ever be so well-protected as your postprandial slumbers.”

Aziraphale takes his seat, spreading his napkin neatly on his lap. Their glasses are full -- Bollinger 2005 Grande Année, London, 2019 -- and he raises his to the demon smiling across from him. “To dining together.”

“Amen,” Crowley says, just to see the look Aziraphale gives him.

\---

Aziraphale insists on offering Crowley a morsel from each plate, reminding him where they’d been when they first shared it. Crowley accepts with mock bashfulness that might be a little bit real, and then he enjoys the inestimable privilege of _not stopping_. He doesn’t have to chew over his one scant mouthful until it’s lost its flavor, knowing it’s all he can have. He can have another, and another, and Aziraphale will laugh and push the plate toward him, urging him to take the last piece since he’s enjoying it that much.

“Ma’amoul,” Aziraphale says, passing him a delicate little pastry. Crowley bites into it and laughs when powdered sugar dusts down his front. “I could always get you to take one when we were in Damascus. Do you remember that dreadful argument we had, the first time? Right around 3000 BCE?”

“Oof, yeah, free will was never a safe topic, was it.” Crowley tries to brush the sugar off the front of his dress, but it doesn’t help much. “Not one of my better showings, either.” 

“Do you know how many times I went over it again in my head? Oh, I was so frustrated when I couldn’t make any headway, and you just kept laughing! And I thought well, he’s really not playing fair, always going out of his way to shock me -- not that it took much in those days -- but I was sure if I just thought about it long enough I could make you admit I was right.”

“And did you?”

“Well, I was devastatingly clever, of course, and you -- the you in my head, you understand -- were much more obliging than usual, but whenever I remembered what you had actually said, I was in the same trouble as before.” Aziraphale pats his lips with his napkin. “I don’t think I ever did concede that you had a point, did I?”

“Not as such, no, but…” Crowley shrugs. “I could see it, later on, times I put an idea in your head. It changed you. That kinda scared me, sometimes -- that I was changing you, and maybe you didn’t even know it.”

“Oh, I knew it. It wasn’t you, not entirely. I was changing myself, thinking about you so much. It scared me, too.” Aziraphale smiles and takes a dumpling (Heian-kyō, 819 CE). “Though not as much as the day I realized I was going over one of our conversations because I missed you.”

“I’m gonna tell you this, but you’re gonna laugh,” Crowley warns.

“Am I? At what?”

“I… mostly just thought about how you smelled.” 

Aziraphale does laugh, bright and kind. “How I _smelled_? Surely not like anything special.”

“Like yourself, of course,” Crowley says. “But there’s lots of memory in smells even for humans, and for me, it’s like… I know I’m terrible at explaining stuff, but it’s just a really big part of what something _is_. Like how you smell is how I can tell it’s you. And it tells me how you’re feeling. You were worried all the time and I wondered how much of that was me. But you were also happy, sometimes, and I wondered if any of that was me too.”

“I worried about many things, though of course you were one of them,” Aziraphale says. “And you made me happy, always. That was always you.”

Crowley licks his spoon, savoring the last sweetness (melon preserves, Babylon, 586 BCE) with a soft sound. His other hand rests on his belly, round and compact under his soft jersey dress. “I think I’m full,” he says wonderingly. “It really has been a while.”

“How do you feel, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, leaning in. Crowley can’t miss the mixture of hope and concern in his eyes.

“Unwieldy?” he says after a moment’s thought, and Aziraphale lets loose a surprised snort of laughter. “No, really, I’m shaped all different now. Also I think --” his jaw cracks and nearly comes unhinged as a tremendous yawn interrupts him -- “I’m getting a little sleepy. Sofa?”

Aziraphale bustles around the table to help him up, and yes, his legs feel wobbly and unbalanced underneath him -- more even than they look, for once. The angel’s plump arm around his waist is a welcome support as they shuffle to the back room, Aziraphale retrieving his sword along the way. There’s a stack of pillows and another of folded blankets, far too many of each, but Crowley knows how anxious Aziraphale would be to make sure he hadn’t left out just the one he would want. The demonic part of him wants to bristle at the suggestion of angelic nursemaiding, but the snakey part of him is already drifting in sated bliss and will brook no dissent.

“Do you want the heat lamp on, Crowley?” Aziraphale asks, easing him down onto the sofa. Crowley tries to help, but soon finds it’s best to lie still and let the angel distribute pillows, blankets, and his own heavy limbs. 

“Yeh,” Crowley says, his jaw heavy with another yawn. “Thanks.”

The lamp clicks on, bathing Crowley in warmth. “All right, dearest, you rest now. I’ll be right here, keeping an eye on you.” Aziraphale tucks the last blanket corner around his shoulder and retreats to his own armchair. Crowley watches from under fluttering eyelids as he unsheathes the sword, sights along the blade with an expert eye, then sheathes it again and lays it across his knees, giving the hilt a brisk pat. It’s a silly bit of theatre, wholly unnecessary, and Crowley has never felt safer in his long, long life.

“Y’know, your first guard job wasn’t exactly a success,” he murmurs, unable to resist the chance for one last poke.

Aziraphale smiles at the demon, warm and content in his home. “Wasn’t it?”

**Author's Note:**

> Little change of pace for you all, because I cannot get enough of Aziraphale squaring up to fight God and everybody on Crowley's behalf. And just soft nonsense in general. This is the fictional equivalent of stress-baking.
> 
> Many thanks to [Fuuma_san](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuuma_san) for an excellent lightning-quick beta, and to [voidbat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/voidbat) as always for mutual softness indulgence.
> 
> Come see me on [tumblr](https://cumaeansibyl.tumblr.com)!


End file.
